Cinnamon smoke
by Umbra viridis -tco
Summary: <html><head></head>There is something nibbling around Dean's edges. Something he still needs. The salvation that's being forced into him is unhelpful. He knows he needs someone who'd rather have him, human or cursed. It's a category Sam and Cas are determined not to fit, despite the joy Dean finds in being the latter. Somewhere, Phil Colins is left alone with a little kid which is also a problem.</html>


Dean feels death in his bones. It stirs and rolls around them akin to an impatient, excited dog. In a canine manner, it howls. But it howls for Dean and Dean alone, as he's got no intentions to let it scream at any of Crowley's moons. Dean doesn't give a three-winged shit about Crowley or his moons. Or a singular earthly Moon if this is what the fuss is about. Most likely is not. Probably it's yet another stupid metaphor. He wishes Crowley wouldn't elaborate on those, or on anything in particular for that matter. He finds the very timbre of his voice annoying. He reminds himself that Cain could technically shut the bug quiet and idly, he wonders if he can do that, too. He wills it to happen, frankly speaking disinterested with the outcome. Turns out to be a success – Crowley's mouth keeps moving, but not a word escapes that cockwound of an ugly face. Crowley's irritation visibly grows, but Dean remains an unwritten emptiness, an uncaring, indifferent tabula rasa. There's nothing in him except of the death in his bones.

On second thought, he could have chopped Crowley's hands off because one snap of his short fingers, and the two of them are in Hell. Dean takes a look around. It looks plain stupid with the fucking salesman in charge, but really, what the fuck would he expect. Hell was better back in Alastair's days, he recalls almost softly. Almost.

Because fuck Alastair, he had sold Dean out like a gold egg-laying hen, like an export whore. Alastair lied even though Dean had enough rack and blood-filled years to believe neither he nor Hell would have lied to him, to their favorite. Alastair had grown to be the one proud father Dean never got a taste of, then morphed into a sugar daddy of some sort, praised and touched him so right he stockholmed him away from thinking about the years when he'd slice him open and sing. Dean had a twisted faith in him because he finally was told he was good, that could be made into being even better. Dean wanted that. And yet, from the start Alastair had known there would come an angel to tear him out of his works, of his newfound purpose. Alastair let him slither away from there gladly. Now that Dean thinks of it, teaching him to cut into men wasn't yet another torture just for the sake of breaking him and carving into him, no. The grand design lied in giving it to him and then taking it away from him just like that.

But who is he trying to fool: he always loses people and things. In fact, maybe he never even had them per se – they just are and just go. Exactly like he should have known they would. That's not of his concern anymore. He's lost everything.

Hellhounds keep walking around him, around the unnecessary candelabras and art deco sofas. There's too much angel-dressed minions, too much papers, smart suits, too much bureau.

"You're making a mess out of this place," he states with a minimal hint of disgust he's not interested in hiding. "My only advice, take it as a farewell gift," he adds while giving Crowley back his voice because there might be some pleasure to dig out of him fussing around while being scolded.

"That's nonsense," comes an offended huff. "It was a mess when the loyalists ran it. I made it work!"

Dean snorts.

"You almost lost it to a red-head cunt," he retorts. "Oh, wait. You did. I took her down while you did nothing except of pulling a Sammy with the blood and the whining."

"I have found you Cain and I have given you the blade, Dean. Remember that."

"Yeah, thanks for nothing. Sorry it had to be a consolation prize for you since the most cunning demon king of hell was such a pansy he wasn't worthy enough to get the mark from his idol. How sad is that, Crowley, on a scale of one to you?"

"And how sad is that, Dean, that you were?"

Dean shrugs. His everything is stiff. That's right, he was dead. He should cure himself probably somehow and maybe the death will stop rattling. Not that it matters.

Esthetics, he decides. That's it.

"How do I get this piece of shit back to work?" he asks because for the moment that's more important than any sort of an academic debate on his self-esteem and his obviously poisonous inherent genes and purposes.

"I'll throw you a spell to make you pretty if you play nice, lover mine," Crowley says slyly, but Dean has none of it as he has none of anything.

Immediately, the tip of his blade lands at Crowley's poorly shaved throat.

"Oh, I won't," Dean assures. "You're just going to play nicely and do it, bitch."

"You can't seriously think you're going to threaten me like this. I had you all around my little finger, with almost no effort."

Dean smiles emptily.

"We danced for just that one song and you already think we're married with children on the way. Look around, Crowley. I'm not listening to you," he explains, "I'm listening to me and to this," he presses the blade slightly into his skin. "And you know who else is gonna listen to this? Everyone. Even the hounds."

"My hounds," Crowley insists idiotically.

"Sit," Dean and the blade order. The beasts do as they're told. "What do you think is going to happen when I tell them to kill?"

Now it's Crowley's turn to look around the room.

"All of you lot," he hisses to his henchmen, "out."

They scatter away like dust.

"Start stripping, kitten. We need to get your sweet lady parts in a bathtub first. Don't make me regret my courtesy, Dean," he warns, intending to leave the room, probably to get whatever shit is required.

"I was born to make you regret things," Dean reminds him as he shimmies out of his jacket.

* * *

><p>He smells of anemones, of lilies, of lotus. But there could probably be bigger prices to pay for not being a corpse once already becoming one. His fatal wound stays where it was, but tries to pretend that it doesn't exist or at least that it didn't do shit. He's spent so much time in that flower, oil, herb and blood-filled bath he was starting to think he's going to decompose through dissolving into the damn crap alone. Instead of getting more wrinkled and soaked, his skin got better, actually. He can't tell if the morbid composition had any influence on his blade, but to Crowley's endless frustration, he wouldn't let go of it even there. He's not that damn stupid. Of course the fucker would snatch it away at first try only to have him play ball. Keeping the handle locked between the firm grip of his teeth, Dean puts on the clean set of clothes that was left for him. A nondescript, black suit and a cheap, white shirt – something that Crowley's putties often wear. This has got to be temporary, just until he gets out of here. With some regret he thinks about his own, more comfortable suits, the ones that he left at home. Past home.<p>

Going back to the bunker is of course out of options. It hasn't been a home in a while now. Hasn't been one since Sam thrown their blood and their past in his face like shit. There is no more family business where there is no family. He doesn't quite wanna believe Sam when he said he lied about not saving him, he opts to discard it and take it as adrenaline lying to both of them only because he was dying and there was nothing to be done anymore, the only remaining thing to give being a comforting little lie. He knows Sam when he speaks the truth and through the whole time when he was using Dean's entire life as an accusation, he meant every single word.

He supposes Cas isn't in the bunker either. Gotta be doing whatever these things are that Cases do mixed with being the default gone. Lying in his bed, with death rattling in him like a tin can pushed and pulled on the wind, some parts of his consciousness, the ones that kept waiting for a sign telling him to get up and walk, they remember Cas not being there. The memory foam of his deathbed remembers it, too. Crowley was taking Cas's chair. Cas had things to do. Cas always has things to do, things that aren't him. Now Cas is free. There's no more ball and a chain crying for him to come back. The ball turned into ashes and smoke. He fixes his cheap, lousy tie. No, he isn't sad, no. He's just got death itching and choking with dryness in his bones like cinnamon dust and that's probably it.

The doors reopen.

"I expected to still catch you in the nude," Crowley says, measuring him and the minion suit with his clever eyes. "But this will very much do. Even better."

"You know I'm not gonna stick around, right?"

Crowley laughs like it's some grand kind of a joke he made here.

"Doesn't matter. You'll come back. I promise this new you is going to be too overwhelming for the remains of old you to handle. You'll need my guidance. Frolic around and see for yourself, lad," he leers.

Dean smirks emptily and the lie written within is so blatantly visible through his eyes Crowley doesn't have to comment on it. Dean doesn't know if there are any old remains in him. When he breathes in, he only hears the death gurgling in his chest like pneumonia. He doesn't particularly hear anything that is or was Dean. Maybe not anymore, maybe just not yet.

"I'm gonna work it out. Cas knows demon shit, too so I think he can take it from here fine," he deflects, probably not even entertaining the idea for real.

But the mocking, full of pity way Crowley snorts at him, makes him actually focus for once.

"From what I know him, I'm not sure he's going to want to take your it from anywhere now, Dean. Not to even mention teaching you to adapt, which is your only option as far as I'm aware."

"Geez, Crowley, don't go with the angels are racists shit here, Cas nearly banged a demon and didn't seem to mind. I saw enough of that megstiel crap for a lifetime. Was like a nineties teen movie."

"And, Dean," the salesman adds in an annoyingly patronizing teacher-like tone, "he is certainly not going to bang you now," he sighs and Dean swallows invisible nails in reply to that.

"That's not what I meant," Dean clarifies, but truth be said, he bit of did. "Cas is my friend."

"This is my point. He met and fell for a pristine good old you. He's not going to accept a void wearing the face of something he was so keen for. He knows there is no going back if he's not stupid. To him, you died. He's going to make sure you stay dead for the sake of your soul. He won't let it spread into the new disease that you now are."

"I'll find out myself," Dean cuts it. "Besides, I like the disease."

"Go ahead, dear and see if anyone will care what you like," Crowley laughs. "Your brother is still down there, doing his worst and best to reach me. You need to hurry," he says and with no further ado, sends him back.

Dean takes his car and runs away. He lied. He doesn't want to see that for himself, not yet. He needs to quiet the death down.

* * *

><p>He drinks and fucks a lot. All his charming smiles are dull, none of his whiskey works like it should, but the bodies fall for him willingly anyway and he takes them greedily: the stubbled cashier in Pine Bluff, the waitress in Shreveport, that one bearlike guy in Baton Rouge (and that made Dean remarkably angry and disappointed afterwards, but to this day he can't quite put his finger onto why), everyone. Perhaps everyone except the unlucky folk who try to put him in a demon trap, but very quickly, they learn it wasn't a good idea. He gets himself a pair of aviators, doesn't even recall where, but he keeps them on as quick as he finds out how to make his eyes flicker to black as he pleases. He sees more this way. More demons, too. Some of them before they die are willing to talk. Not that Dean asks, he doesn't quite care, but lets them spill while they're at it. He finds out his brother and Cas cooperate now every now and then in a very eager search to find him, or his missing corpse or whatever the fuck that he supposedly now is in their databases. For the love of all damn gods, he's got no idea why would they do that now. He's a cold case. They should be happy, not slicing their way through throats just to get him. Get him and what? Cure him? End him better? He's already as done as done can get. And he's good, so good… well, kinda good like that. Either way does not require an intervention or any amount of Jesus. With that resolution in mind, he stays in the south. Doesn't know why it is so important.<p>

Demons also tend to leave him with other things. But okay, that one's on him. He killed the host, he forgot about the god damn dog. Kid dog motherfucking hellhound. Looked so happy to be freed from its master it almost peed all over himself with whatever this is that demon dogs piss with. And for the love of all fucks he knows, he didn't have it in him to destroy the thing that almost killed him with the joyful wagging of its tail. The problem is, Dean used to hate dogs, hellhounds especially. But Dean is dead and it's not like something, or especially this, is going to kill him. He can't even make rude judgments here, for all he knows his own face may at this point be an ugly twisted mug that consists mostly of a hungry air-sucking vortex too, and their blood is equally demonic.

Dean doesn't want a dog. But he can't just let it walk among people. He sighs. He wonders if he should wipe the entire population of Abbeville off the map so it wouldn't be rude dog-slaughter but impersonal, polite genocide. His blade says yes, but he personally votes no, something in the back of his head tells him _don't_ _hurt these lands_ and he bargains with _this can be a very useful dog_.

"Well, fuck you," he tells the very useful dog in resignation.

It barks happily and attempts to lick his hand when he points at it angrily and futilely, it seems.

"Oh, God," Dean exhales tiredly and he can literally feel himself and his in-bone death sag in defeat, "you're such a sappy moron I think I'm gonna have to call you Phil Collins."

* * *

><p>Upside of his situation is: the rumor saying he's a Winchester and a Cain 2.0. with a fanatically loyal Phil Collins of his own, makes the monsters flee wherever he is.<p>

Downside of his situation is: also that.

He's getting bored. But oh, he's found a perk to being a demon, alright. The freedom of killing when it has to be done. The don't kill humans used to make things unnecessarily complicated. Now he whatevers, comes and conquers. He already knew there are monsters worse than actual monsters and now he's open enough to let that sink in. He's very open, now. He can open his mouth so wide he roams freely, thick darkness and clouds of rotten eggs. He's very open: he spreads his legs and takes from whoever he likes; opens his arms and takes, possesses, has to wear or to fuck. Whoever he likes also. He kind of tells himself that it does protect the civilians, but most of the time, he just needs to feed his death, his hand that now ends with a camel jaw. It has grown into him, ages old fractured bones are wired deeply beneath his own. At some point Dean recalls that sweet gay thing of his, that one that wasn't one, not really. And he thinks about Aaron's task; figures his weapon did exactly this to him: has taken charge, fulfilled the yifalchunbee. He's just the clay man now. One with death falling raindrops from one of his rib to another. Unfed and needy. Dean doesn't know what it wants to eat. Sometimes he asks Phil, but he doesn't know. He's a dog. Dean won't go and ask Crowley. Won't go and ask Castiel.

Phil grows very fast and fast also, Dean learns that it likes a) Dean and b) eating corpses. He's a very useful dog, but he makes his car reek like hell. Which makes it kinda like home. That one home Alastair sold him out of. If there's something he wanted him to pay for the most while having him pinned and weak below his hands while the tables were so wondrously turning, it's that: betrayal. But he didn't get to finish.

Dean doesn't get to finish many things in his experience.

Like this fucking human-hunt in Alexandria.

* * *

><p>He was tracking this piece of shit for days. The white knights had to mess it up. "Take the girl and run, Phil!" he only gets to shout, trapped as a deer in the headlight upon the sight of Sam and Cas surrounding him. He turns into the salt statue, in the glimpse of a second he lets sentiment towards a sentiment take over him, he's lost, asking his hand not to use the blade against them, begging his darkness to run instead, but it takes too long and he's caught – demon trapping bullets into both of his kneecaps. He falls, doesn't know who shot them.<p>

Dean sees Castiel's boots come closer and closer only to have the sight replaced with the flesh of his palm, fingers digging into his temple, forcing his consciousness to yield before the remains of holy power. Staring through the meat of the warm hand, he watches Cas die slowly before him. He curses himself for being stupid, because now there's a hellhound left with a traumatized eight year old, both of them confused and on the loose, he got himself caught like he's eight himself and jesus shit, he doesn't want to be awake for this. He lets Cas's mojo work. He'll manipulate them later into being responsible for it. Because they will be responsible for it. Dean at least knows how to control the dog. Phil didn't exactly look like he was going to eat the kid, he tells himself. From above, right before passing out, he overhears Sam's angry and disbelieving, "He fucking mutilated that guy!" Yeah, he did, Dean thinks, he fucking mutilated that guy and now there's no one to clean up the mess. With that in his pissed off mind, he's out.


End file.
